Page 64 of The Dead Saint

Adrian gestured to Revenant to pack up. Thompson and Ivo lingered, studying Sorcha’s wounds from a distance. Revenant, Ivo, Bran, and Domenico watched the edge of the cliff with their hands on their swords.

A mad chattering filled the air, rising above the crashing waves and punishing wind. Sorcha glanced behind her, wide eyed and poised to run.

“Now,” she whispered, clutching his arm. “We leave now or we die in this place.”

Chapter Eighteen

They rode through the night—under a crescent moon, the golden star blazing on the horizon—before stopping to set up camp. Sorcha was surprised that the small tent she’d shared with Adrian so far expanded to create a much larger space. The walls were thinner, not doubled over to keep the cold at bay. And with fabric stretched as tight as it could go, the interior was large enough for them both to stand comfortably.

The bites throbbed and were painful and swollen, but they weren’t as bad as the fear had been. Watching those creatures come out of the walls, as if they hadn’t been solid stone only moments before, had been a waking nightmare. She could live with the pain of the bites—and the scarring—as long as she didn’t see those creatures again.

Sorcha stayed with Epona long after Adrian had overseen the camp being set up—it looked as all the others had. A central campfire with tents gathered around it in two circles. Adrian’s tent was in the inner circle, but with enough room all around to give Sorcha an illusion of privacy.

The Tomeis ignored her for the most part. Occasionally, she felt the pressure of observation, but no one would ever meet her gaze except for Revenant. He watched her with that unnerving silent malice. Sorcha could never hold his gaze for long.

“Your tent is up.” Ivo reached out to pat Epona’s flank. “Adrian is looking for you.”

Sorcha turned to him, surprised he was addressing her at all. But then, maybe Adrian had sent him to find her. Ivo had been a kind of personal guard in the moments when Adrian left her alone. But he’d never spoken to her. Epona’s ears pricked in his direction, and she turned a curious eye toward him.

He was a short man with pale eyes and a weatherworn face. Burn scars marred his hands, the flesh deep red and gnarled. But she felt no warmth or comradery with him beside her. Would he protect her because Prince Eine demanded it? Or because Adrian expected it? Toren’s warning surfaced: These men would kill you if they could.

“Why don’t you address each other with titles?”

The question was out before she could stop herself. Epona snorted, bumping Sorcha with her nose as if even she knew it was stupid to ask such personal questions. To her surprise, Ivo remained, watching her thoughtfully. She raised her hand to apologize, to tell him he didn’t have to share any kind of information when he spoke.

“Adrian has never demanded it. He knows who he is. We know who we are. To those outside our circle, he is the Wolf, and we are the Black Tomeis.” Ivo shrugged as if this had all been settled long ago and her questions were ignorant.

“Thank you,” she said with a nod, giving Epona one last affectionate pat before heading for her tent.

* * *

The pressure of the relics—their nearness, the expectation—was almost overwhelming. The tent housing them was set up near Domenico again. The man sat before them as if on guard. But from whom? Were they worried she’d try to ride off with them? Or that someone would appear to claim them?

Sorcha wanted to touch them again, to search for that connection she’d felt fleetingly at times. It had ebbed and flowed, a voice growing louder, a whisper becoming a shout—a command—demanding things she could not yet understand. But a large part of herself, the one growing stronger day by day, never wanted to speak the Saint’s name again.

To her surprise, Adrian was waiting for her at their tent, holding the flap open so she could pass beneath it. She did so, brushing past him, so aware of him she couldn’t breathe.

“You need to clean and dress those bites,” Adrian said, pausing at the tent flap. “I’ll be back with hot water.”

Sorcha nodded and pulled at the high neck of her dress, ready to peel it off and get clean. She turned to her pack, where a change of clothes was beside her rolled furs. Adrian had placed them there, opposite his own things. As he always did. Thoughtfully, Sorcha removed her gloves and boots and placed them beside the items.

Slowly, she began to remove the layers of clothing, wincing with pain. The bites hurt, but they were only a part of the whole—each muscle and bone was sore from riding for weeks on end. The last time she’d seen a real bed was the Traveling City. And a true bath. Sorcha would have crossed hot coals if there were a real tub on the other side.

* * *

Adrian paused as he entered the tent. Sorcha stood with her back to him, showing an expanse of bare skin dotted with purple bruises. Her rich brown hair hung over her shoulder and swept across her bare shoulders, the rest of it clutched to her chest. He could see several bites, but none of them looked serious—puncture wounds that were no longer bleeding. Painful, yes, but not infected that he could see. She hadn’t been clear about what had been in the cave. What kind of creature would leave a mark like that? He’d ask her again when she was clean and had eaten.

“There will be food soon,” he said, setting the small pail of warm water near the brazier. “I don’t know whose turn it is to cook.”

Sorcha snorted.

Everyone disliked Bran’s cooking, but it didn’t matter. They would all eat it. The Black Tomeis lived their whole lives at the behest of Prince Eine. That meant rarely staying in one place, with most meals thrown together while they conquered cities or beheaded kings. None of the group enjoyed cooking, so they all took turns.

“Thank you for the water,” she said, glancing at him.

Adrian watched as Sorcha turned to him, drinking in the sight of her. Even worn out and tired with several frightening bite marks, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He vividly remembered the empress when the empire claimed she was the most beautiful woman alive or dead. He’d been in the court when a princess from the Biser Islands to the east had been presented, the most famous beauty in her father’s court. There had been others. Prince Eine’s court was full of women revered for their looks—pretty faces and cunning eyes.

He’d felt nothing for anyone for so long.

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